


Expect the way it goes

by protaganope



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Injury, Wrote this, got locked in a car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 04:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16486208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: He didn’t think to call himself needy, and neither did anyone else.





	Expect the way it goes

This place was arid.    
  
He comes awake on his side to bright light and raises his head drunkenly, unable to focus his eyes to take in the scene before him. His brows draw together as he forces away the blurring colours and shapes from his vision, slowly becoming aware of the muffled sounds around him.   
  
Engines. Birds. Strangers’ chatter.    
  
Car park. His mouth opens as though it has just now learnt it could, and he realises how swollen his tongue feels in his mouth. This isn’t right, he thinks, half conscious, his addled brain taking its time in realising the situation.    
  
The air is hot, stagnant, solid and pressing like a physical entity. The sunlight is like the edge of his knife, weighing into his pale skin and wielding the same ferocity. He’d groan, if only he could, but the heat has long since eaten his voice. Wheeling brown eyes note stray hairs in the fabric where he’s laid, and freshly disturbed dust motes that fly, dispersed, suspended in weighted air, taunting him.    
  
He swings his leg over and pushes with dissociated limbs until he’s sat upright. His vision swims momentarily at the movement, so he twists up his face in hopes of ameliorating the sickness. It does indeed soon pass, and he relaxes.    
  
The sky is great, endless and encompassing, a blue that reminds him of his mother and he shuts his eyes, his head hitting the parcel shelf, lingering over the comparison. His lips press together as he fights the urge to yawn, and he breathes out deeply as the need dies. Somewhere, faintly, a bird trills, most likely perched in the trees, a ways beyond the glass of the car. The Adam’s apple of his neck bobs as he swallows, and, remembering the satisfaction of his first exhale, he sighs again, repeating past action.    
  
The burn of injury surges through his nerves, and he reluctantly cracks his eyes open. Focusing on his arm takes more effort than he last recalls, but he doesn’t dwell on the fact. He stretches it, feeling the familiar tug on his joints, and notes with wan satisfaction at how the wound is healing. Soon, there will be a tan mark in its place, in lieu of the ugly red and purple that only brought dimension and pain.    
  
He scratches at his hair, immediately gets his hand caught in a knot and the bitten nature of his nails quickly causes his fingers to catch, pulling uncomfortably on the broiling black strands.    
  
Typical, he thinks, tired.    



End file.
